Scarlet ribbons are woven into her hair,
titan ringlets frame her beautiful face.
Never refusing to wiggle her pert derriere,
rich men pay big to ogle nubile Ella Grace.
Huge feather fans ensure she’s never bare ~
Ella’s folks aren’t aware of her work place!
in her aging mind
she will remain as nubile
as her lovers are
.
NO
then hang me
Yahweh
left mine eyne open
to
indulge this sight
One uv His Most Fantastic Creations
and i'm sharing
with
the Gift mine Blessed
PHUK
the fine uv this purty
ticklez the Atlantic's spume
wit
hern hip's limb'z digits
not 'ware uv ‘mine’ think's
“tickle”
or
hind mine
the spurious who
wait for mine reach
uv
hern
Ancient Latin 'cipher
"nubile"
i mustn’t
worship
,)
but damn
Snap
I brushed water colors with thoughts of Adam's Eve
and the fallen one who was disguised to deceive
this naked nymph, who strikes a nubile pose
offering a ripened apple and a crimson rose
Both face and body, painted innocently pure
her femininity was unquestionably demure
but with forbidden fruit bitten, it was all lost
From Eden's paradise she and Adam were tossed.
Uprooted as a tree, she forfeited divine favor
The evil reptile's lie succeeded to enslave her
Woe to the male offspring she was created to bear
One killed by the hand of the other, his plight forswear
To them, closed forever was the garden's gate
The finality of death then became mankind's fate
A wrong path was chosen when she'd been warned
gave way to mortality that all of us have mourned
A mental landscape of shifting sand dunes.
an intimation that something may be worth writing,
A scrabbling creature crawls bedraggled out from
a saturated darkness.
A Scarab beetles shadow takes hesitant form.
Watch as words ripple above infertile ground,
see how serpentine they flow.
Yet another poem about Creation is arriving.
Adam is sewing pants out of banana leaf's
for Eve.
The young man is jealously aware,
that the googly-eyed monkeys
are eyeing her nubile libido.
Early days in the Garden; Eve is making
mud cakes, they have yet to figure out
how to eat manna.
The scarab beetle, has resorted
to scratching hieroglyphics,
for words alone are no going to complete,
this arid revelation.
Something may be worth,
transcribing - maybe.
Perhaps this envisioning
will find fresh water in a dry place.
The white page has a blank face for a reason.
Three women
with the same chin,
and same ears.
The last of the three
has less likeness to the others,
her eyes will not fit
within their glancing windows.
although she is almost,
she will ever be not quite.
One, the one with the chin
as soft as a pillow
I could speak to
and she would not understand my words,
but she would nod and smile
just to please me.
The other
the one with ears that match the first,
is wise, she sits on a lotus leaf
like a scintillating frog-angel,
or a green Mona Lisa.
I could speak to her and she would nod,
repeating my words verbatim.
The last lady will be the first.
Her eyes are not quite left or right,
she is dissimilar.
My interest in her is impurely plutonic,
I listen, unseen sex pods,
pop all over her nubile body.
I never see any of this,
mind hides its picture shows.
Late at night or early,
we build a tangled love nest
out of all the same things
we can think of.
though, like that Shubert symphony
It never gets finished.
Always, some old, odd twigs
cannot be woven together,
no matter how hard we try.
11/1/2023
When you tore my nubile nightgown,
from my youthful body in two.
That sherbet-colored beauty,which I
had purchased, just for you!
Forgotten, quickly then, though never
your footsteps, in the sweet,hallways of time!
Decades later, memories of that soccer
Austrian goalie and I now live eternal in rhyme
Your dimpled chin and sweet kisses, are
but yesterday’s treasure, indeed, sublime.
That starlit, spring night, so uniquely floral,
Opalescent and with fireflies~ divine.!
Hot
wind blows
on dry trees,
all my daydreams
I repose in shade.
Dusk drizzles warm colors
from tinted twilight cauldron,
I paint July panorama.
Nubile night falls through the arid air,
I savour summer’s stardust sonata.
Long time since I have been to a nightclub
they don't let me out at night alone now.
I used to be sharp
had many friends in low places.
I miss the culture, the sweaty maneuvers
under hypnotically pulsing lights.
The aroma of nubile sex
and just maybe getting lucky.
Back then, you did not have to be
a minor local celebrity to get laid,
just have cash for a taxi ride
back to your crappy bedsit.
I could still be
a smirky smile under neon lights,
but the feet won't slide no more,
and the bouncers won't let you in
wearing bedroom slippers.
Rough churn ocean delivers her in dignity
Innocence paints in peach, lustrous Venus
Scallop swaps out pearl for Spring felicity
Implores warriors enter her restful nucleus
Never swept by squall of zephyr incessant
Guardian horas of orange grove bless her
Froth pop in scallop separates her calves
Regenerating mer manger cradle naivety
Offers primavera infant influenced charm
Muse of newness heralds erudite Mercury
Transcendent shed tail maid rules tranquil
Hails bay pleasant placid beside Poseidon
Enchantress of ocean, cove bliss thankful
Swathes of honey inhabit hips of sea siren
Enigma captures canvas Campaspe nubile
Anadyomene imagines baptism birth fertile
Rising From The Sea
21st December
She taps upon my windowpane
This nubile vixen, this spring rain
Enticing me with moistened kiss
To join her now or be remiss
Thus, does she whet my appetite
Awakens me at dawns first light
Soft sounds that bid an ancient soul
Come join me now and be made whole
So I arise as barefoot boy
Her warm spring kisses on my face
The tearful melancholy joy
Of moments I let time erase
©11/9/2022
(for Sally)
Sally, swarthy mare of a serene plain
Clad in habiliments of nubile grace
Whose name is the opium
That soothes the tremor of restive hearts.
Like the full moon that adorns the night,
Whose brilliance brightens gloomy spots,
Her probity, constant and unceasing
Is a blaze of untainted glory.
Sally, whose rhetorics dripping like wild honey
Is a basketful of beatitudes
That wraps the souls of mortals
In veils of hope and faith.
The winds shout her name,
The trees bow in reverence,
The birds whisper it in their songs
And echo its beauty to the green hills!
Spring Was Delayed
by Michael R. Burch
Winter came early:
the driving snows,
the delicate frosts
that crystallize
all we forget
or refuse to know,
all we regret
that makes us wise.
Spring was delayed:
the nubile rose,
the tentative sun,
the wind’s soft sighs,
all we omit
or refuse to show,
whatever we shield
behind guarded eyes.
Originally published by Borderless Journal
Fall
autumn
color play
palletteable
wonderland display
September October.
November spaces grace
color interface
nubile inways
passing life
fading
fall.
Malabika Ray Choudhury Poem contest Beauty of fall
9/19/21
I’m hot in a careless way,
Like a barn fire, or a stolen Mercedes.
I’m the B-side of a 45
That never got much air play
Except at the request of lonely girls
Sitting home on prom night
With thin slivers of moonlight
Slipping through their drapery
To caress their disappointments.
I’m an organ grinding gypsy,
A vendor of cognitive provocations,
Subliminal symbolism,
And academic totems.
My vagrant delinquencies
Have accustomed me
To settle my accounts
With handy lay about cash;
My ledgers are always well balanced.
So, when I need a little bodily love,
When I need a little bodily love,
Yes, when I need a little bodily love
I summon that sylvan nymph coven
Of nubile forest vixens
To witch their carnal spells
With dirty talk and tongue lashings
That cleanse my insecurities
And teach me the usefulness of emptiness.
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